


Fake It

by starkraving



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Amnesia, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Memory Loss, Near Death Experiences, Protectiveness, Swordfighting, Team Bonding, Team Dynamics, Team as Family, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-06-12 11:46:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15339198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starkraving/pseuds/starkraving
Summary: Fjord notices that Mollymauk’s scimitars aren’t, you know, real swords so much as stage props. He’s got a few questions about that. Molly recollects his first fight and why fighting for other people is the only thing worth fighting for. Obviously.





	Fake It

 

Fjord notices in Zadash but doesn’t say anything until they’re on the road to Labenda and he gets a moment catch Mollymauk alone.  It’s evening. Molly’s checking through one of their supply crates, kneeling in the back of the wagon and humming to himself while he does it. His tail kind of twitches with an idle contentment. Fjord waits for him to finish what he’s doing, just watching him for a moment, taking the moment to kind of study his odd teammate. Molly’s just as colorful and strange as the day they met: still dressed in carnival barker colors, a glitter with jewelry and gold and silver accenting that may or may not be real.

He actually can’t remember the last time he met a tiefling with horn adornments like Molly’s. It must have taken quite a bit of commitment to drill the necessary divots in the bone. His rings are iridescent, hammered metal pressed in color. He’s presently rifling through a box of tea packets, slim lavender fingers thumbing through the lot. From where Fjord is standing, the pale repeating layer of scarring on his arms seems stark – hundreds and hundreds of what he now knows to be purposeful wounds. He wonders now how many of them were inflicted by Mollymauk and how many by whoever he was before.

“You’re staring,” Molly says, not looking up from his tea selection.

“Sorry, meant to catch you once you finished.”

Molly snaps the box shut and turns on his knee to grin at Fjord.

“You’ve caught me,” he says. “How can I help?”

Mollymauk’s a friendly face. Fjord thought so even before he knew the man, but a handsome face and a pretty smile only does so much for fangs, horns, and solid blood-red eyes. Fjord finds Molly kind of fascinating to look at despite himself, but he thinks Molly knows very well what kind of reaction his tiefling traits will draw him without the presentation. A demon face dressed in carnie colors, after all, is a novelty. Not a threat. Fjord is familiar with that of course – the cultivation of charm to overcome looks.

Fjord leans against the wagon and Molly sits at the back, peering down at him.

“I don’t want to offend you, Molly.”

“Pft! You’ll have to be very rude to do that and I don’t think you’re physically capable of it.”

“Well, I appreciate that. I just, well, in light of what we learned in Zadash I had a few questions.”

Molly’s face falls a little. “Well, sure, if you like.”

“Oh, no. Not about that. Not exactly anyway. That’s yours to tell, Mollymauk. I just had a question again about your scimitars.” He nods to the weapons strapped still to Molly’s hips. “Just a small thing before we get much farther along to Labenda.”

“Of course. What’s on your mind?”

“Molly, are those swords even real?”

Molly arches a brow.  “Uh, yes, Fjord. They are real?”

“No, no. I mean are they actual swords. Like from a blacksmith who forged them for the purpose of battle or are they, you know, circus props?” He clears his throat because Molly is still arching a brow at him. “I just ask cuz I’ve seen you juggling ‘em and now that ya told us about, you know, them not being special at all…” A beat. “No offense, your profession wasn’t exactly martial before joining our group. I’m just…”

Molly looks a little wary.

“This ain’t a criticism on your fighting ability,” Fjord clarifies quickly. “Point of fact, the group relies on you quite a bit. You hold your own, Mollymauk. I’m just… sayin’…”

“Nah.” Molly waves a hand. “You’ve caught me, Fjord. They aren’t real.”

Fjord, despite suspecting this, sputters. “You – you’re fighting with prop weapons?”

“Welllll…” Molly scratches the back of his head. “They’re quite sturdy Fjord. It’s not like they don’t get the job done. Though, I could use your advice getting them sharp. I think they’re a bit dull…?”

Fjord drags a hand over his face.

“You haven’t even sharpened the…?” He cuts himself off, takes a deep breath. “Molly, that’s not the point. You should fight with real weapons. There’s a big difference in the construction of combat-ready steel and… and whatever those are.” He jabs a finger at the blades on Molly’s hip. “You need to invest in better weapons if we’re gonna keep taking on jobs like this.”

Molly shrugs. “Okay, but it doesn’t make a difference when I use my rites.”

“Right, but if you can’t get your rite active, you don’t wanna go toe-to-toe with someone that’s got a real weapon. Monsters and beasts is one thing, but I don’t want to see you cut down because you run into a real swordsman.”

Molly tilts his head. “You really think it’ll make that much of a difference?”

“Molly. Yes. I’m surprised Yasha hasn’t said the same.”

“Well, I wasn’t using these to fight until Trostenwold.”

Fjord hesitates.

Molly’s tone is dry. “Don’t spare my feelings, Fjord. I think we’re deep enough in now.”

“Molly, again, no offense, but I get this feeling sometimes… that… well, you don’t exactly know what you’re doing during a fight.” He holds up two hands. “Not saying you don’t good job, like I said, there’s plenty of fighting you’ve done that made all the difference in our winning. You’re tough but you kinda… I dunno. It’s like you either know exactly what you’re doing… or you don’t. No in between.”

Molly is quiet for a moment.

“Do I… have that wrong?”

“No.”

“You don’t have to… well, I say you don’t have to talk about it. But we should address that if we’re gonna keep doing dangerous shit is all.” There’s a longer pause. “Molly, how much actual experience do you have fighting with those swords?”

He looks exasperated. “It’s not like Trostenwald was my first fight, Fjord.”

“Oh good.”

“It was, like, my third or fourth?”

“WHAT?!”

Molly claps a hand over Fjord’s mouth. “Hey. Keep it between us, why don’t you?”

Fjord takes Molly’s wrist and moves his hand off his face, hissing sotto voce, “You’re only ever fought with swords three other times in your life?! What the fuck, Molly?”

“Well, I’ve been _using_ the swords quite a bit more than that. It’s just the, you know, actually stabbing things to death part I’m a little new at.”

“You… well, you’re very convincing. I’d have never guessed that you were so new to it all.” A pause here. “I think you… you have a lot of natural talent. Sorry, if I suggested otherwise.”

“Well thanks.” Molly glances at his wrist, which Fjord is still holding and Fjord quickly lets go. “Anyway, if you’re worried about it, I’ll upgrade my weapons at the first reasonable opportunity. How about that? Mind you, I’ve gotten pretty used to these ones.” He pats the hilt of his carnival swords. “They’re very well balanced. Perfect for juggling you know.”

He winks.

Fjord feels a weird twist in his stomach that he can’t quite identify and decides it’s anxiety. It’s definitely anxiety about his odd tiefling teammate who has, functionally, two years of working knowledge and appears to have been faking his way through various life-threatening battles. Who, essentially, grabbed juggling knives to fight a fiend and has continued to do so for the past few weeks. Who didn’t really see a problem with that because, apparently, it’s been working out so far.

“Molly, would you be opposed to… practicing? With me I mean? I could use a sparring partner and I could offer any insights I have.”

“Oh.” Molly blinks, then grins. “Yes. That would make sense wouldn’t it?”

“I think so. And we don’t have to mention anything to the others. Keeping your skills sharp is perfectly normal.”

“Just say when and I’ll come.”

“And, gods fuck me… Molly, just give me the damn things. I’ll take a whetstone to ‘em. Alright? I’ll show you how if you want.”

Molly laughs. “Slow down. We have time. Tea first. Then weapon repair. Maintain priorities, Fjord.” Molly hops out of the cart and pats him  on the shoulder. “Thanks for looking out, by the way, I appreciate that.”

“Molly, wait.”

He turns back around, blinking curiously at Fjord.

“You know you don’t have to… pretend with us, right?” He asks because he’s suddenly not sure. “I hope that you’d trust us enough that you could just come to any of us if you’re needing help or feel outmatched or… you know.” He shrugs. “I’m just saying you don’t have to fake it, Mollymauk. I’d rather know what’s really going on with you than find out later I coulda helped ya through things. You know?”

Molly studies him. “Thank you, Fjord. Really.”

“Do you think we’ll think less of you or something?”

Molly hesitates for a moment. “Well… Nott called me a swashbuckling swordsman and I just kind of liked that. Didn’t want to disappoint her.” He flashes a grin. “I love playing to my audiences, you know.”

“Well, we’re a group now. It’s like you said, we should look out for one another.” He offers up a grin and gently punches his tiefling ally in the shoulder. “Besides, if you get killed by some asshole who knows what he’s doing, I’d miss you in a fight. Weird glowing swords and all.”

Molly smiles then, crooked and a little slowly. “Fjord, if you keep talking like that, I’m gonna have to accuse you of flirting and I won’t be held responsible for debilitating our fearless leader.”

“I–” Fjord sputters. “That’s not what I meant—”

“Fjord. I know. Stop letting me debilitate you.”

Fjord grumbles and drags a hand over his face again. “Just promise me you’ll let me sharpen the fuckin’ things. At least. You’re stressin’ me out.”

Molly winks again and walks off with a little flourish.

 

* * *

 

A while ago, on a night very much like the one where Molly and Fjord discuss tea and swordsmanship, something like this happens:

The Fletching and Moondrop Traveling Carnival of Curiosities goes four months without incident, an unprecedented amount of time for a collection of weirdos and misfits to go without harassment. They do three shows a month, seats packed, run two short cons, and walk away unfettered. It’s almost unbelievable. Mona and Yuli joke, “It’s because of our good luck charm.” And here they usually grab Molly around the waist, one on either side, and crush him in tight dwarven hugs. “He’s our lucky charm, knock us down if he isn’t!”

“Damn right I am,” Molly preens, dropping a little to hook his arms around them and plant enthusiastic kisses on their heads. “Lucky as the stars.”

And he does feel lucky.

Lucky people come to the consciousness in a world of color and carnival music, with kind faces hovering over them. Lucky people have men like Gustave Fletching ask them gentle questions for days and days until the questions stop being so much noise and start being words again. Lucky people get to cry when the crush of confusion becomes too much and have people like Toya come sit with them until the spell passes, humming quietly until they fall asleep. Lucky people wake up Mona and Yuli braiding their hair and bringing them breakfast. Lucky people have Desmond Moondrop smile at them.

Mollymauk Tealeaf is very lucky.

It’s night. The carnival caravan has pulled off the road and the smell of the chow tent lingers in a sweet cloud over the meadow, the low murmur of after-dinner conversation settling low throughout the camp. Molly’s handing mugs of tea around to people gathered around the fire while Ornna barrels her way through a story involving nudity, fire, and con artistry. Toya catches his sleeve as he passes so he kneels down to give her his ear. Her low, creaky speaking voice is just barely audible when she cups her hands against the side of his head.

“Are you practicing?” she asks.

“I am,” he says, beaming at her, “I’ll have a show of my own for sure. Just you wait.”

“Sword juggling?” She squints at him. “You’ll lose all your fingers.”

“No, I won’t. I’m very good already.”

“Already?”

“Want to see?”

“Yes.”

Molly grins at Toya. She grins back and, rather impulsively, throws her arms around his shoulders. He hugs her back. It’s been a long week. Their last town brought such enthusiasm, they did four shows back to back before finally departing and the toll is exhaustion. Molly’s throat still aches from the constant talking, reeling, dealing, and selling of seats. The skin along his neck and shoulder still aches with fresh ink. Flush with sudden coin, he’d reinvested it immediately into a new tattoo. No better way to mark a success after all. Toya, however, gets a little clingy when tired so Molly squeezes her small body, pats her back in a reassuring way.

“You okay, love?”

“Kylre’s not feeling well. He won’t come out of the wagon.” Her arms are still around him and Molly realizes she’s feeling lonely. That’s why she’s stopped him. “I think he’s sick again.”

“Oh, he always gets like this,” Molly says. He leans back and ruffles her hair. “You know, he just hibernates sometimes. He’ll wake up in a few days and be right as rain. Tell you what, I’ll get my scimitars and show you what I can do. Right now. Tell the others, I’ll show them too.”

Toya smiles and Molly pats her cheek and gets up to go find the supply wagon. It’s parked a little way out of the light from the campfire so Molly has to hike past the horses, patting one on the nose as he does. He reaches the cart and clambers into the back, his dark vision revealing the interior even in the extremely low light beyond the campfires. He hums a little as he goes through the cart, shifting boxes, digging through a chest and extracting two plain, back-weighted scimitars. Designed more for tossing around than cutting things.

He hops out of the cart and jogs across the field, blades tucked under his arm, past the pitched tents, into the firelight again. He’s looking at the swords as he does this.

“Now, you can’t make fun of me. I only just started –”

He looks up… and stops dead.

There are two large men standing by the fire. One of them has Ornna by the hair, the other one appears to have just clocked Gustav across the jaw with the hilt of his sword. The man is down, unconscious. In the grass beyond Gustav, Molly can see Bosun – big Bo, their half-orcish protector – bound and bloody. Also unconscious. The bandits are staring at Mollymauk and Molly, his heart acidic suddenly in the back of his throat, just stands there rooted and afraid.

“Hey there,” says the one holding Ornna. He smiles, almost friendly. His other hand is around Ornna’s throat, not squeezing, just holding her. “Now, now, don’t do anything stupid. Shh. Stay there or my friend is gonna have to hurt ya. We’d rather not.”

“If you want money,” Molly says, “I can show you where it is, but you’ll need to let them go.”

“We know where the money is. Aint about that anymore.”

“C’mon now,” Molly says, tilting his head and trying a smile; the one he slips out when a crowd’s getting too nasty. “There’s no need for any of that. Can’t we be friends?”

“Yeah?” says the one with the sword.

“Yeah. Let them go and I’ll be your friend. No problem.”

He bares his teeth. “Alright. Why don’t you put the swords down, sweetie?”

He says that and for a moment Mollymauk splits down the middle. On one side: the terrified carnival barker. On the other: a nameless instinct that fires off at the tone and timbre of this murderer’s voice. A piece of him that knows the tone of killer without ever having heard it before. And that quick-twitch of muscle memory doesn’t need to think to act and before Mollymauk is aware he’s done it, the grip of the show scimitars are in his hands and he’s taken a diagonal defensive stance.

He manages, somehow, not to look surprised his very own self.

“Let them go or you’ll regret it,” he says, growling.

He speaks it in Common, but puts an Infernal undertone beneath it, tasting copper in the syllables and kiss of hellfire on his tongue. The men both flinch slightly at the guttural grind but the one who called him ‘sweetie’ seems to shrug it off. Molly wishes, like he usually never does, that he could remember Infernal. He feels it in his gut that he should know it, a birthright to his kind, but in the moment it’s not there so he bares his teeth and ducks his chin.

The men glance at one another… and the ‘friend’ starts walking toward him.

“Molly,” Ornna whispers. There are tears on her face, the bastard’s fist knotted in her hair. Her nose is bleeding. “Molly, don’t. Just run, honey. Just run. Please, please, just run.”

He shakes his head. “We don’t leave people behind.”

The first man is almost on him, the sword two-fisted in his grip. He’s broad, bearded, a mountain of a man with fifty pounds on Mollymauk who is, simply, not a very big person to begin with. He’s grinning. His teeth are broken in some places, his face pitted with scarring and in his eyes – Molly can see with a certainty that he’s killed men before and this man will kill him too for the sport of it. He doesn’t know how he knows it, but he knows. He knows it down the bloody marrow of himself.

“Molly,” says the man. “That’s a pretty name.”

“It’s Mollymauk unless we’re friends,” says Molly, circling left, stunned that he can speak at all, much less speak spite. He keeps the scimitars raised, desperately aware that they are literally show-steel and not even sharp. “I don’t think we are.”

“Give me five minutes.” His grin leers wider. “We will be.”

Molly tastes metal, tastes sulphur, tastes _hate_.

“Fuck you,” he says, “you ugly, unfortunate, asshole.”

The killer lunges. Molly cries out. He can’t help it, but his body… his body moves without him. He pivots around the massive two-handed swing striking it away with his left blade and faster than he’s ever moved in his short life, he comes back around and slams the point of the opposite blade into the bandit’s back as he runs by. The dull metal thunks two-inches deep in bone and muscle, hitting him left of his spine. Molly freezes in surprise. His opponent howls, falling forward before spinning back round, wounded but by no means brought down.

“You devil-spawn, I’ll split you in two!”

He lunges at Molly again, wild now. Molly jumps back, suddenly fumbling. The broad sword slams into the scimitar, knocking one wide and sending Molly into a backwards stagger, fear corrosive in his throat. The man strikes again and he barely blocks it. His arm jars with each strike as the man starts hacking at him, artlessly, pure brute force and rage that has Molly falling back, has him stumbling, blows knocking his guard wide and if not for having two blades, he’d be cut down already. He has no idea what he’s doing. Fear, again, seizes hold of him.

Ornna is screaming. Toya is weeping in Desmond’s arms, her face buried in his shoulder so she won’t see it when it happens.

 _Don’t die,_ he thinks. _Not unless you save them. Not yet. Not yet!_

Molly blocks another wild blow. The force of it again knocks his arm wide but this time the bandit doesn’t come around with another swing but bull-charges Molly, grabbing his struck sword-arm with his free hand and yanking Molly around. He hurls Molly to the ground and slashes his unguarded back as he does. Molly feels the blade rip a line of fire and impact across his spine from hip to shoulder-blade. He screams, hitting the grass on his hands and knees. _Move_! He immediately shoves himself sideways, rolling, just fast enough to avoid the crown-splitting sword hack.

Wounded, Molly rolls back to his feet. Stunned to find himself upright again at all. Moving on muscle memory his conscious soul does not possess. The pain from the cut is not as debilitating as he thought it might be, a burning, aching line of heat and blood but not deep. Weirdly, it fires a heat of adrenaline through him like a salve, washing the pain away into a dull, distant haze as the world goes hyper-focused.

“Drop the weapons,” says the bandit, but in slow-motion. “I’ll let you live if you give up.”

“No, you won’t,” Molly whispers.

The bandit grins. “I might. Sorta depends. You a guy or a girl? I can’t rightly tell what you are…”

“I’m the carnie that’s gonna kill you. That’s what.”

And then the man attacks, charging… and the reaction takes Molly like a possessing spirit. That blade comes down, but this time Molly side-steps it, lets the sword scream past him, so close it cleaves the air and churns a breeze against his face… then Molly steps past the man, yanking the blade after him – easy as drawing a ribbon over his shoulder – and it bites. Dull metal and all, it cuts straight through the meaty carotid artery in the bandit’s throat. Molly pulls all the way into the follow through, ending with on bloody scimitar held horizontal in front of him, the edge dripping red.

He hears his opponent choking wetly, thrashing in the grass behind him and the sound is so horrible it breaks his focus. He turns to look. The man’s clutching his throat, gouts and gouts of blood spraying between his fingers, dousing the grass in gleaming red. His eyes are bulging in his skull, his tongue lolling and Molly has never –

“Molly! BEHIND YOU!”

Too late. The other bandit hits him from behind, not with a sword but a full tackle, knocking Molly face down, landing on top of him and slamming the breath from his lungs. His scimitars are flat under his chest. He sucks a lung-crushed breath, tries to scramble up, to get his knees under him, buck his opponent off his back but the man’s too heavy. He fists Molly’s right horn like a handle and wrenches his head back, grabs one of his wrists and torques his arm up the middle of his back, yanking it up toward the nape of his neck until Molly yells.

“You killed my partner, carnie freak.” He shoves Molly’s face into the grass, yanking his head back by the horn, forcing his eyes up. “You’re gonna regret being alive. I’m gonna have you –”

“LEAVE HIM ALONE!”

Ornna, beautiful Ornna, brings a whole damn frying pan down on the bandit’s skull.

“FUCK!”

The bandit falls sideways off of Molly and Ornna immediately keeps swinging, yelling the whole time. Apparently, the would-be-murderer thought she wasn’t a threat. She’s small. Pretty. Understandable mistake really.

“You beast! You bastard! You fucker! Don’t touch them! Don’t you dare touch him!” She just keeps swinging, though the bandit is kicking her back with his feet now. “LEAVE! MOLLY! ALONE!” She hacks with a pan at every word, then just yells. “Ahhhhh!”

The bandit kicks her in the belly. She goes down with a cry, hitting the grass and sobbing, curled up like a stabbed animal and the sight puts a panic in Molly.

“Ornna!” Molly scrambles. He grabs the stage swords from the grass again, darting to stand between her and the monster attacking them. Desmond, bless him, had already run away with Toya. “Ornna! Run! Please, run!”

She grabs that frying pan again.

“Don’t leave people,” she pants, “behind.”

The bandit’s back on his feet, his sword drawn this time.

“Aye! Fuck you!” Ornna yells.

“Yes! Exactly!” says Molly, feeling faint.

The bandit charges them.

Ornna doesn’t hesitate. She hucks that cast-iron pan at him and her aim, gods bless, is true. It smacks him in the shoulder, knocks his sword aside and that split second of distraction is all Mollymauk needs (somehow) to snap forward one step, hook the hilt of one scimitar through the cross-guard of the man’s sword, wrench it sideway, and slam the blunt blade of the opposite scimitar straight through his throat. Out through the top of his spine. Blood hits Molly in the face, but he barely notices.

Molly shoves the twitching corpse away, loses the scimitar in its grisly sheathe and stumbles. He falls back in the grass and Ornna’s there immediately, grabbing his shoulders, hooking him around the chest, her hands gripping his shirt.

“Is he dead?!” Ornna cries. “Did you get him? Did you get him?!”

“Oh, yes,” Molly pants. “He won’t be walking that off, I’m fairly sure.”  

Ornna grabs him around the head, hugging his skull against her chest like a horned pillow.

“Oh gods, Molly. Oh fuck, I thought he’d kill you. How’d you do that?”

“I don’t know.” Molly’s starting to hyperventilate now. His hands, steady before in the killing blow, are shaking violently now. “I just… I’m just full of surprises, don’t you know?” He can hear his voice starting to crack. “Are you okay, Ornna?”

“Yes, yes. I’m okay. We’re all okay, honey. Good job, Molly.” She hugs him tight. “You. Did great. That was great. Okay? You didn’t do a thing wrong. Those were a pair of bastards and they got what was coming to them.” She spits at the bodies, then shakes him a little, a reassuring jostle. “C’mon. On your feet. Gotta take care of the others now, okay? Let’s go. Up, up.”

Molly keeps the scimitars.

**Author's Note:**

> Questions and comments are mulled over, digested, and used to fuel more writing. I'm gonna write Molly fic until I stop being sad.


End file.
